


Soldier, Poet, Queen

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adoptive Parents - Freeform, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Parents, Riding, Smut, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Young Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23000554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier shuffles his chair closer to Geralt’s. “I imagine this is how parents feel,” he says softly. His fingers ghost over the back of Geralt’s hand, running over scarred knuckles.“I’m not, though,” Geralt says after a time. “Her parent.”Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s yours,” he says gently. His words won’t carry over to the arena; they’re too far away. But even still, he knows how sharp a Witcher’s hearing can be. And even if Lambert is currently occupied with teaching Ciri about where to strike on a body, Jaskier keeps his voice low just in case he listens in. “In a biological sense, no. You’re of no relation to her whatsoever. But family is more than blood.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 120
Kudos: 1858





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know literally no one asked for Geralt and Jaskier Being Parents and Worrying About Almost Everything...but here you go, regardless...

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“ _Please_?”

“ _No._ ”

Ciri looks across the table. “Jaskier, help me.”

The bard looks up, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m not getting involved,” he says airily, continuing with his dinner.

Geralt snorts. “That’s a first.” The Witcher grunts as a swift kick lands to his shin underneath the table.

Ciri huffs, folding her arms tightly over her chest. It’s in moments like these that they’re both reminded how young the girl is. She’s a child. A bowl of stew sits in front of her, somewhat forgotten about. Geralt nudges it towards her. She takes a moment to glare at the Witcher before begrudgingly picking her spoon back up.

A troop of soldiers have taken up most of the rooms in the town. They’ve been called on by a neighbouring lord, intending on heading south to stop Nilfgaardian movements. It’s been almost a week and a half since they’ve heard anything about the southern kingdoms and how they’re fairing. It’s been even longer since they heard whispers about what the Nilfgaardian armies are up to. Still, they’ll keep moving north with the other refugees – all keen on putting as much distance as they can between them and the chasing fires.

Kaer Morhen is still a few leagues away. Winter seems keen on settling over the continent within the next couple of weeks. Snow has already started capping the mountains and hills. It won’t be long until it’s blown downwards; animals will be housed in barns and crops will long be hauled in. The roads will be frostbitten and hard, but empty. No one will try and travel in the cold.

The tavern isn’t that busy. Most of the soldiers are out back, sharpening their swords and fletching arrows. Geralt can hear the squeal of metal against whetstones, even through wooden walls and the soft chatter of those inside the tavern.

“You said it yourself,” Ciri mumbles, swirling her spoon around the stew. “I’m going to have to know how to protect myself.”

Geralt grunts. “And you can learn that in Kaer Morhen.”

“Which is still leagues away!”

“We’ll be there by the end of the week,” Geralt says shortly.

Ciri sighs, defeated. Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. “You’ll make a fine warrior, princess,” he offers.

Geralt frowns at him. Speaking any part of Ciri’s identity into the world seems like an invitation for bad things. He doesn’t know exactly what happened inside the walls of Cintra, or what happened in the week after the city fell, but he _does_ know that not a lot of people mourned the Queen’s death. He’s heard her be called all sorts of insults on the roads. So Ciri is Fiona, and the fact that she is what she is, is only known to them both.

A small smile ghosts Ciri’s lips at the compliment. Geralt nudges her shoulder. “Eat,” he orders. “We’ll move out in the morning, so get as much food and sleep as you can.”

* * *

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be and nothing like it at all. A heavy wooden gate groans open as they approach. It’s a large keep, made up of slate-coloured buildings backed into the face of a mountain, shrouded and shielded by the hills around it and a thick, cloaking fog. Roach knickers softly, throwing her head back. Geralt gives her a soft pat on her neck. Jaskier catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. She recognises home.

A faint figure of a man slips out between the gates. He had a hand on the pommel of his sword, but it drops as soon as he sees them walking towards the gate. Even with the wind howling, Jaskier hears a deep laugh echo. “Well, I don’t fucking believe it,” the man spreads his arms out. “The _White Wolf_ has returned for the winter!”

Roach halts. Jaskier helps Ciri down first, adjusting the girl’s cape around her shoulders and neck as a particularly harsh wind blows through. Geralt drops down from Roach. His feet have barely touched the ground before the man has him gathered in a tight embrace. Without the fog clouding his vision, Jaskier takes the man in. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, but his hair is cropped and auburn.

When they pull away from each other, the man claps his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you!” he laughs.

Geralt pats the man’s arms “Is Vesemir here?” he asks, his expression stoning slightly.

The man nods. “Aye. He came back from market a few hours ago.”

Geralt hums. “I have something to discuss with him.”

* * *

The keep sprawls for what seems like miles in all directions. He can imagine what it must have been like, with countless boys in varying stages of life living within these walls. The stones around him contain memories, he’s sure. Now though, only a handful of hallways are lit by faint candlelight. Banners and tapestries have frayed edges, but still cling desperately to metal railings keeping them up.

As soon as they stepped foot inside the main keep, they stood in front of an elderly man with a scowling face. Geralt stiffened slightly. “Vesemir,” he inclined his head. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye. Vesemir’s eyes – amber, though not as bright as Geralt’s – flickered over to where Jaskier and Ciri stood. His jaw tightened.

He inclined his head – a silent order for them to follow.

Jaskier will be sure to wander and explore later, but he learned that Kaer Morhen is bigger than it appears. A courtyard, kitchen, dining hall, library, and armoury – to name but a few rooms that he can see. Geralt told him countless stories about the keep and what there is in it. But after seeing it from the outside, how it scales up a mountainside, he’s sure that there are more things to find. And he isn’t really sure what other thing will occupy his time while they spend the winter here.

Ciri stays by his side. Jaskier glances down, watching them fall into step with each other. The Witchers walk together, a couple of strides ahead. Vesemir is silent: but Jaskier has lived too many years with Geralt to know when a person is brewing something like anger in them.

Jaskier squeezes her hand. A silent question. _Are you alright?_

She glances up at him. She nods after a moment, but tightens her grip on his hand.

They’re brought into a meeting space. A large hearth is at one side of the room, being stoked by who Jaskier presumes is Eskel. Geralt mentioned the names of his brothers before. The Witcher doesn’t look up from prodding the fire, hoping for the newest block of wood to catch. The man from the gate – Lambert, Jaskier learned – takes a seat near the fire. He kicks out with a leg, hitting Eskel’s calf. “Move, you oaf,” he says. “The heat can’t get out with your fat arse in the way.”

Eskel scowls at the other Witcher, but sets the poker back against the hearth. Vesemir watches all of them flood into the room. Jaskier takes Ciri to one of the many armchairs near the fire. She’s been trembling with the cold for the past couple of days, no matter how many layers of clothes she gets on. Jaskier gestures to the ties of her cloak. “Let’s get this off,” he says quietly, dropping down on one knee when she settles back into the armchair, “or you’ll overheat.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

Vesemir’s voice is a harsh thing. Like a sword against metal. Jaskier glances over just in time to see Geralt wincing, looking down at his boots. He picks at some flaking skin around his fingernail.

“Forces like that of the Law is as ancient as time,” Vesemir growls. “We don’t interfere with it!”

“I didn’t think that-”

“-Too right! You didn’t think.” The man’s head snaps over to the other side of the room, looking at the other two Witchers.

Something shadows Eskel’s face.

Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to tell the eldest Witcher that, _technically,_ Geralt invoked the Law twice. Both times, the end result was Ciri ending up being entrusted into his care. Whoever it was that ruled over the universe, a pantheon of gods or something else entirely, it was _very_ keen on getting Ciri and Geralt together. Those two threads of fate are so entangled together now it’s hard to see where one ends and another begins. But looking at how small Geralt looks now, practically curled in on himself as Vesemir launches into another “lesson” about how destiny can be a treacherous, unyielding bitch, Jaskier bites his tongue.

It’s not to say he’ll store that piece of information away for later, for if Geralt happens to step out of line or be a particular pain in the arse.

Ciri stares down at her boots. Jaskier takes one of her hands in his. Even bundled in a heavy, woollen cloak, a scarf, and gloves, she still shakes like a leaf. He rubs their hands together, warming them up.

Behind them, Geralt tells Vesemir and the others about everything that had happened: from invoking the Law all those years ago in Cintra, to finding Ciri in a forest clearing over a decade later. Vesemir glances over to them when Geralt mentions Cintra. Something shadows over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. An entire kingdom is without a monarch. He’s pretty sure that Cintra has fallen entirely. It’s not something that’s ever brought up. They can only imagine what Ciri went through when being taken out of the city.

There are brief moments, mainly during the night, when she’ll wake up because of a night terror. One of them is always nearby, gentling and assuring her that she is safe, and nothing would come to harm her.

And they were always so mindful. Neither of them used Ciri’s name while out in the wilds. She had told them both that she had called herself Fiona to a handful of Cintran refugees in the days after the fall of the city. It was a name that stuck. Gods only knew where Nilfgaardian soldiers were at any one moment, and if they had riders or spies heading up through the north, rooting out where the princess may have gone.

Something cold settled into Geralt’s bones one day: when he knew that Cahir or whoever it was leading the southern front wanted to get their hands on Ciri. Geralt always seemed quieter after that, more protective of the girl from just about anyone who wandered a bit too close. Ciri couldn’t walk anywhere without the Witcher being an ever-present shadow, always just an arm’s reach away. Jaskier gentled him as best as he could; but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel the same way.

* * *

Apart from wandering the halls of the keep, taking stock of how many rooms there are and what they’re for, Jaskier finds himself with nothing to do. The Witchers make idle conversation with him: mainly asking about the ballads he has written throughout the years. Eskel laughed into his cup during dinner. “I couldn’t go to any town in the south that didn’t have a bard singing one of your creations,” he said after gulping down a mouthful of ale.

“Imagine what it was like living with their creator,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier sends him an affronted look, but ultimately goes back to his own food. Something small and mumbled may slip past his lips about _ungrateful Witchers_ and how he made them all famous, so they can keep their coin to themselves.

He strums a couple of chords, staring up at the wooden rafters above him. Inspiration has avoided him throughout the past couple of weeks. But then again, the Continent has enough of his songs circulating around. And Geralt was never short on contracts offered by most villages and towns they passed through. He only stopped taking them once they came into possession of Ciri. They had enough coin between them to take time off, making sure that the girl was safe.

In the time they took travelling to Kaer Morhen, they made sure that the coin they did have stretched as far as it would go. They stayed outside of cities and towns when they needed to – the road, although rough and cold, is safe when winter starts to roll in. They only bought food that they couldn’t hunt for themselves. Sometimes people would offer them a loaf of bread, or half a wheel of cheese; people that Geralt did jobs for once, still thinking that they needed to repay the Witcher as he passed by their homesteads.

The balcony looks out on to a large dirt courtyard. Some stables are nearby, with Roach and the others’ horses happily feasting on hay and oats. Training dummies stuffed with down-feathers, and with makeshift armour on their heads and chests stand at attention around the outside of a large dirt circle. In the middle of it, Ciri, armed with a wooden sword, watches Lambert teach her how to hold a blade properly.

Jaskier casually plucks at a few more strings, idly humming a tune to himself. Beside him, Geralt sits forward in his own chair, looking down at the courtyard.

Lambert nudges her foot with his. “Keep your feet anchored, lass,” he says, bending his own knees slightly. “If your centre is low, enemies have a hard time knocking you over.”

Ciri nods, mirroring the Witcher. It takes a couple of tries for her to navigate how to stand, how to step back, and fall into the stance again. It’s made even more difficult when Lambert reminds her that she has a sword in her hand – although wooden – and should be held in a certain way, and positioned correctly in front of her.

Jaskier makes a face. He can’t count the number of times he called Geralt’s sword fighting _dancing_. And it does look like it, even now. Ciri stumbles over herself occasionally, huffing when Lambert corrects her. It seems more complicated than what most people seem to do: grab a blade’s pommel as tightly as you can and just start swinging.

Geralt arches his neck, watching the girl and his brother closely. He doesn’t blink. Or at least, Jaskier doesn’t think he does. He looks at him out of the corner of his eye. A slow smile spreads over his lips. “If you’re that concerned about her getting hurt, then you really have to rethink about what you’re letting her do.”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. Jaskier sets his lute aside, reaching out for one of Geralt’s hands. The Witcher doesn’t pull away; he could if he wanted to, Jaskier always gives him the option to. But he smiles faintly at the way Geralt’s fingers lace with his, squeezing slightly. He still stares out on to the courtyard, watching both people down there like a hawk.

Jaskier traces idle, unrecognisable patterns over the back of Geralt’s hand.

Ciri manages to hold her own. She’s only been training with Lambert for a couple of days, but she takes to each lesson like a duck to water. Even when Lambert leaves, announcing that they’re done for the day, she stays behind; practising all that she’s learned by herself, or on the dummies around the arena.

At one particularly good strike to Lambert’s side, Jaskier hums. “She can hold her own,” he says firmly. Because, _gods_ , she can.

Geralt angles his head. He doesn’t reply, but with how firmly he’s holding Jaskier’s hand, the bard can only imagine what’s going on in his head. Jaskier shuffles his chair closer to Geralt’s. “I imagine this is how parents feel,” he says softly. His fingers ghost over the back of Geralt’s hand, running over scarred knuckles.

“I’m not, though,” Geralt says after a time. “Her parent.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s yours,” he says gently. His words won’t carry over to the arena; they’re too far away. But even still, he knows how sharp a Witcher’s hearing can be. And even if Lambert is currently occupied with teaching Ciri about where to strike on a body, Jaskier keeps his voice low just in case he listens in. “In a biological sense, no. You’re of no relation to her whatsoever. But family is more than blood.”

A soft hum leaves the Witcher.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand. “You’re my family,” he says, “as is she. And I would gladly take this family over the family that shares blood with me.”

And he’s explained it all before; his life before meeting Geralt in that inn all those years ago. Geralt listened, offered soft words of sympathy and comfort at the rehashing of a particularly harsh memory being dredged up. But the people that share his blood and last name, they aren’t his family. His family is a Witcher and his child surprise.

Geralt jolts slightly at the sound of a _thump_ echoing through the courtyard. Jaskier blinks, looking down at the dirt arena. He watches as Ciri scrambles back on to her feet, dusting gravel and dirt off of her breeches, and running at Lambert at full speed with her sword retracted over her head.

 _Yeah_ , Jaskier thinks, _she can look after herself just fine._

The hand around his has tightened. Looking at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, he snorts at the scowl firmly etched on to his face. When Ciri is, predictably, knocked down again, the corner of Geralt’s lip lifts into a snarl. “Don’t kill him,” Jaskier mutters, leaning forward to press a kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s jawline. “I like Lambert. He actually laughs at my jokes.”

* * *

Winter rolls in silently. The winds gradually get colder, nipping at Jaskier’s skin whenever he steps outside, or if the balcony doors to their room are left open. Hearths in the main rooms of Kaer Morhen are kept lit. Each Witcher takes turns wandering out to a nearby forest to bring in wood for the fires. Another saving grace is the fact that the keep was built on some hot springs deep in the body of the mountain. The lower levels, where the baths are, are always humid. With how warm the keep is kept during the days and nights, he’d be forgiven for forgetting that winter had even settled in the first place.

When the first heavy snow slides down from the peaks of the mountains, it covers everything. The arena outside, where Ciri had spent most of her time, is unusable. That doesn’t mean her training stops, though. The library of the keep holds too many books for Jaskier to count. Most of them are anthologies: studies into different types of monsters, and how best to kill them. Others concern the history of different kingdoms on the Continent.

Geralt sits with her, explaining the differences between each monster she reads about. She pipes up with a question every so often, asking what actually the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul is. Jaskier tries to hide a small smile into his journal when Geralt shrugs, saying he doesn’t actually know, or think that a difference actually exists. The others agree with him.

They’re all gathered in one of the main living spaces. Eskel and Lambert are by the fire, warming themselves after seeing to the horses comfortably stabled outside. Jaskier sits nearby, writing down aimless scribbles into a journal. Inspiration has been fleeting in the past couple of weeks; which strikes him as strange. He’s in the home of Witchers. Surely something would inspire a story.

Vesemir walks into the room, securing his cloak around him. “I’m going to the market. I’ll be a few hours.” He glances over to Lambert. “Don’t try and kill each other while I’m gone, you hear?”

Lambert splays his hands, an affronted look flashing over his face. Before he can even open his mouth, Eskel jumps in. “We’ll manage.”

Vesemir hums, not entirely convinced.

Ciri’s head pops up from her book. “Can I come with you?” she asks earnestly, pushing the tome out of her way.

Vesemir gives her a small smile. “Not this time, lassie,” he replies. “When the snow thaws and the roads a bit safer, I’ll bring you then.”

Ciri sits back with a small huff. Geralt nudges the book back in front of her. It earns him a glowering look off of the girl. 

He gives them a gruff _goodbye_ before heading out into the snow. Jaskier watches the door close behind him. “Will he be okay on his own?” he says, looking over to the gathering of Witchers dotted around the room.

Eskel snorts. “That old dog will outlive us all, lad,” he says, throwing another block of wood on to the fire. It spits and hisses, but eventually calms. Another blanket of quietness lies over the room.

It’s a comfortable one; one that doesn’t ask to be filled by pointless conversation or questions about the weather. Not the kind of silences Jaskier used to know in courts and taverns throughout the kingdoms. The Witchers by the fire seem happy enough to just watch the fire lick at the blocks. There’s a soft hum of conversation from Ciri and Geralt from across the room. Jaskier looks over to them every so often; watching with a faint smile how Geralt helps with her with the pronunciation of monster names and the ingredients for potions.

His heart swells.

* * *

Most mornings, he wakes alone. He’s grown used to the feel of a cooling or cold bed when he reaches out, knowing that Ciri has training in the morning with Geralt. What he learned, though, is that _morning_ means _as soon as the sun peeks over the mountain_ , _when the goddamn birds haven’t even woken up yet_. 

But with snow still sitting over the keep, forcing everyone to stay inside for fear of freezing, now he wakes up to a warm figure behind him. Or on him. Or curled around him.

The first beams of morning light start to crawl over to the foot of the bed. Jaskier watches them, listening to the soft intake of breath behind him. Lying on his front, he’s effectively pinned to the bed, unable to move. Not that he would, of course. He likes Geralt claiming one side of his body as his personal pillow. He likes that the Witcher’s head is resting beside his, that his arm is flung over his back, curled around his waist.

He wouldn’t move even if the gods commanded it.

Pillowing his head on his arms, it’s the most amount of movement he can get away with. Geralt’s breathing changes slightly, but with a small snuffle against Jaskier’s shoulder blade, his hold on the bard tightens, and he settles again.

The hearth’s fire died at some point during the night. Embers and ashes are all that remains of it. Still, though, the room is warm. Most of that heat is because of the Witcher by his side. Even with a slowed heartbeat and a cold personality, at the best of times, Jaskier came to realise that the man is a walking inferno. And if Jaskier sits beside him, or can hold on to him during the night, he can keep just as warm as if he were sitting by a hearth.

And that’s...Jaskier blinks. _That’s a good idea, actually_. He lifts his head slightly, looking over to the nightstand. He always keeps a journal just out of arm’s reach. He’s had too many odd dreams in his past to not document them.

Lips suddenly press against his shoulder blade. “What are you doing?” Geralt rumbles.

“Preparing for my great return to the kingdoms’ musical scene,” Jaskier replies simply, jotting down a couple of lines for what he can only presume will be his next hit. An entire season has passed by without a new song; and lesser bards around the Continent will want to have more material to sing, and their patrons will want something new to hear.

The Witcher huffs what Jaskier can only assume is a laugh. Jaskier barely gets a sentence down on the page before he bristles at Geralt’s hand starting to wander. It skims over his side, fingers as light as anything, causing gooseflesh to break out in their wake.

When Geralt’s hand slips underneath him, edging very close to his cock, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He manages to swat Geralt in the shoulder with his journal. “I’m not one to deny your advances, but just for a few minutes, could you please keep it to yourself. I’m busy.”

Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s skin. His hand doesn’t move too far away, settling on the bone of Jaskier’s hip instead. His thumb rubs gently over it, making unrecognisable patterns into the skin. Jaskier huffs, scribbling down a few more lines.

Throwing the journal on to the nightstand, Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Now, what did you want?”

“You always say such romantic things to me.”

Jaskier turns, or at least, as much as he’s able with Geralt’s hold still on him. The Witcher eventually relents, letting Jaskier flop down on to his back and settle down against the pillows. “I’m _busy_ ,” he repeats. “I don’t go bothering you when you’re lecturing Ciri. I have to keep myself occupied somehow.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face just then. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, but Jaskier blinks. He reaches up, dusting his fingertips along the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. The Witcher lifts his head with the movement. “Are you unhappy here?” he asks, with his voice nothing more than a hum.

“What? No. Gods, no.” The words leave him as quickly as a breath does. “No. I’m happy wherever you are. And Ciri. I just need to keep myself occupied while you’re both doing Witcher-y stuff, is all.”

“I could keep you occupied,” Geralt says. The faintest hint of a smirk starts pulling at the corner of his lip.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier blinks, “I think that was very close to something of a joke. A _lewd_ joke. I can’t wait to tell everyone that you have finally found a sense of humour.” A smile threatens to break out over his own face. One that’s firmly kissed away by Geralt.

A moan escapes him at the first trace of Geralt’s tongue against the seam of his lips. Gods only know how long they’re like that for, lips against each others, hands mapping out leagues of skin and muscle.

Jaskier threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging on it slightly. The Witcher grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s lips. He rests their foreheads together for a moment, before leaning down and kissing Jaskier’s jaw.

“It’s late. Ciri will be wondering where you are,” Jaskier tries, but ultimately tilts his neck, letting Geralt scatter kisses down the length of it. He gasps when teeth start to scrape and nip. If he wants to keep bruises at bay, he’ll have to get it to stop now. Too many keen-eyed Witchers have already sussed out what it is he is to Geralt. He certainly doesn’t need to parade around with a necklace of hickeys – it’ll only stoke the fire.

Geralt’s hand drifts down to his leg, lifting and hooking it over his hip. “Eskel said that he’d take her this morning,” mumbles into Jaskier’s neck.

It’s a testament to how well their bodies know each other. When Geralt’s fingers slip inside him, drenched in oil gotten out of _gods know where_ , it doesn’t take long for his body to part and give way. Jaskier’s head rolls back, heavy sighs and moans leaving him with every graze of fingers against that spot inside of him.

And gods if Geralt would let him, he would sing about this until every kingdom on the Continent collapsed. He would never, of course. The Witcher already threatened him many moon-turns ago that if he ever so much as _breathed_ about their sex lives to anyone, there wouldn’t be a scrap of Jaskier left to find.

And it’s always in jest. He would never tell anyone. These moments are for them. So much of their lives changed the instant Ciri collided into it. But they’ll always have this.

When Geralt slips inside of him, every trace of breath escapes. “Fuck,” he swears, curling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him for a moment. It’s always on the right side of too much, the first time they join. No matter how many times they lie together.

Geralt rests their foreheads together. “You alright?” he breathes. It’s some sort of solace, knowing that he can affect Geralt just as much as he can affect him.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you can move.”

Geralt doesn’t leave him. His hips rock against his, wrenching cut-off groans from the bard. His hold on Jaskier’s leg tightens. With a quick movement, he angles it to the side, letting him get deeper. Nails scrape along his back. Jaskier angles his hips slightly, making sure that the Witcher can get as deep as possible, and every second or third thrust grazes his prostate. They know each other too well: especially what to do to make the other person breathless.

Geralt’s teeth graze his neck. His arms slip underneath Jaskier, holding him close to his chest. Geralt flips them both, settling Jaskier over him as he lies back against the pillows.

Jaskier groans. The movement only gets Geralt’s cock deeper. He slumps forward slightly. Planting one hand beside Geralt’s head, his hips start to move of their own accord. Geralt’s hands find purchase there, not guiding him in any way, but just holding on.

A warm coil starts tightening in his core. He can feel it starting, and just wills it to hold off for a moment. He looks down at the Witcher stretched out underneath him; hooded eyes, a lazy smile ghosting his lips.

He doesn’t know how long they spend moving against and with each other. Jaskier’s heart leaps to his throat at the sound of movement in the hallway outside. Heavy footfalls of other Witchers leaving their bedrooms next door. Something must flash across his face, because Geralt huffs a light laugh. “They’ll hear you if you’re not careful, lark,” he grins.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but it’s cut off into a sharp groan when Geralt fucks into him that bit harder. “Oh, you _bastard_ ,” he grits. It takes a couple of minutes for the hallway outside to get quiet again. And the second it does, a chorus of moans and grunts leave the both of them as Jaskier’s vision starts to blur around the edges. His core tightens and coils in on itself. He’s close, and looking down at the Witcher, he can tell that he’s near his end too.

“How do you want to come?” Geralt breathes, planting his feet to help thrust up into Jaskier that bit harder. 

“Oh _gods,_ like this,” he sighs, leaning back and staring up at the canopy of the bed. Shivers tremble up throughout his body with every thrust down on to Geralt’s cock. It’s not enough and too much at once. “Fuck, like this. Make me come, please Geralt.”

The hands on his hip tighten, leaving what he hopes will be marks. Buried underneath his clothes, he won’t be able to move much without knowing what the damn Witcher did. And it sends shivers up through his spine.

He tightens around Geralt at a particularly well-aimed thrust to his prostate. His breath catches in his throat. Geralt sits up, gathering an arm around him and holding him close. His own cock is between them, red and leaking. Every brush of it against Geralt’s abdomen only sends him closer to the edge.

Jaskier loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulder, burying his face into Geralt’s neck. Every groan punched out of him with every thrust soaks into the skin there. When he comes, his vision whitens. His arms tighten around Geralt, holding him close as wetness spreads between the both of them.

Geralt follows not long after, with his hands at Jaskier’s hips holding him down as he fills the bard.

Geralt brings them both down to lie on to the bed. He slips out of the bard quickly, reaching out and fumbling for a shirt of his that he discarded at some point during the night. He cleans the both of them as best as he’s able, before tossing it aimlessly aside to some corner of the room. Jaskier’s breath slowly returns to him. When Geralt lies back against the pillows, lifting his arm, he crawls into the free space. He sighs at the slight thrum of soreness that goes through his lower spine.

“You’re a big softie, you know that?” Jaskier smiles as he settles against Geralt’s side. “Were you truly concerned about me wasting away in this keep?”

Fingertips run up and down each knob of his spine. A slight scrape of nail joins it. “It isn’t lost on me that you’re a bard in a keep of Witchers,” Geralt says slowly. “I worried that you might have felt alone.”

“A sheep among wolves,” Jaskier hums, resting his chin against Geralt’s chest. “I don’t feel alone. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

A small smile ghosts over Geralt’s face.

* * *

Jaskier knows the second the last of the snow has melted. He’s vaguely aware of a loud chorus of knocking against their bedroom door. He frowns, cover his eyes against the morning light coming in through the windows, and burrows back into his pillow. Geralt fairs slightly better, grunting awake and lifting his head, glaring daggers into the door. When the knocking continues, Geralt huffs and buries back underneath the blankets.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Jaskier mumbles.

What he gets as an answer is a non-committal hum.

But Jaskier wakes fully to the door of their room suddenly flying open. “Geralt! Geralt! Geralt!” Ciri scrambles into the room, rushing over to the foot of their bed. Jaskier manages to move out of the way just in time for Ciri to all but _launch_ herself on to the mattress. 

Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you doing so awake at this hour?” he rasps.

“It’s _midday_ ,” Ciri protests, pointing to the tall lancet windows. Jaskier opens his eyes as best as he’s able and, _yeah_ , he’s met with bright skies and a sun sitting high up over the mountain’s peak. Ciri shoves at Geralt. “And the snow is gone! You promised that as soon as the snow is gone, you would take me out hunting with you.”

“I didn’t mean the very second it’s gone, Ciri,” Geralt sighs. He frees an arm from the blanket cocoon they have around each other. Reaching out, snagging Ciri’s waist with his arm, he brings the girl down to lie down in the sliver of free space between them. She tries to struggle out of his hold, using everything she’s learned from the others to try and get Geralt’s arm away from her. But ultimately, she collapses against the mountain of pillows by the headboard of the bed, huffing harshly.

“You promised,” she says, glancing up at him. Her eyes are wide, with the faintest hint of a pout to her lips.

Jaskier brushes some hair out of the girl’s face. It’s freshly washed; he can smell the orange blossom oils she always steals from him. Ever since she started her training, she’s worn her hair back in a simple braid. One that never survives from how intensely the girl insists on training. He smiles down at her. “Geralt is still keen on hibernating like a bear, I’m afraid, little swallow. If you want him out of bed, you should have brought food.”

Jaskier barely gets out of the way of a swatting hand from the other side of the bed.

Geralt loosens his grip on the girl. It gives her enough leeway to manage to sit up, resting her back against the headboard of the bed. “I’ve gotten better at pirouetting,” she says simply, fumbling with the fraying edge of her tunic. “I was hoping that I could show you today.”

Geralt blinks up at her. “If the arena hasn’t flooded with melted snow, you can show me everything the others have taught you.”

“But you’ll bring me hunting with you first, right?”

A small laugh escapes him. “Right.”

“Because Lambert says that we need more meat for the stores.”

“I know-”

“-And Eskel mentioned something about Lambert being _bitchy_ when he’s hungry-”

“-Don’t swear-”

“-You swear all the time!”

Jaskier hides his laughter into his pillow, as best as he’s able. He rolls over to look over the edge of the bed. For the first time in a long time, sleep-clothes stayed on during the night. Sleep washed over them before anything managed to start. He spots one of his doublets nearby. Even with just an arm out, he can feel how cold the air is. And leaving the small fort of blankets both he and Geralt managed to construct for themselves during the night is not sitting well with him at all.

Ciri and Geralt continue to argue behind him as he grabs his doublet, quickly slipping it on before the cold can chill his bones. Even with the snow gone, the air still nips and bites. The keep juts out of a mountain. Thick forests and hills surround them in every direction. Being up so high means that the air is always cold and unforgiving, no matter how much the sun shines down.

Jaskier slips out of bed. He pads over to the other side of the room, grabbing his breeches and boots. Over his shoulder, he sees Geralt start the slow process of getting out of bed himself. Ciri hops down, adjusting her tunic and belt, synching it to her waist. Her wooden sword lies scattered at the foot of the bed. Geralt eyes it as he passes. “You better not treat your actual blades like that.”

Both he and Geralt dress quickly. The Witcher grabs his blades, strapping the sheathes to their normal position against his back. Ciri gathers her own sword, pinning it to her waist by her belt.

They pass Eskel and Lambert in the main gathering room, hauling in some wood for the fire. They stack it beside the stone hearth, content to leave it for a few hours. The hearth isn’t lit. The springs beneath the keep warm the walls with their steam.

The hunting party for the day is Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and Ciri. Vesemir is already outside, filling a quiver with arrows and hooking it to his waist. Three bows lie on a table near him. “Grab a bow and some arrows,” he glances up at the sky. “Who knows how long the weather stays like this.” Something akin to a smile flickers over Vesemir’s face as soon as Ciri rushes past, making a grab for a bow and quiver. Lambert gets there before her, holding the two objects up above her head, just out of reach.

A laugh bellows out of his chest. “If you want it, princess, get it off of me. You know how.”

Geralt is the last to join the party. He stays by Jaskier’s side, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request for another kiss. It’s given to him as quickly as he asked for it. “Be careful,” he mumbles when they pull away.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “I have Ciri with me. I’m in safe hands.”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air. “None of that, now,” Lambert hollers at them, making a face at how close they’re standing. He’s still towering above Ciri, not budging no matter how hard she shoves at him. “We need to go while we still have the sun. Keep your canoodling to yourselves in your own time.”

Geralt flips him off.

* * *

The first time Ciri manages to land a hit on Geralt, Jaskier has to physically restrain himself from running out on to the arena dirt and hugging her with pride. 

There’s a slow trudge into spring. The days are steadily getting warmer, although cold winds still blow through the keep every so often. Geralt came back from the market one day with a cloak in his hand, saying that although the other Witchers could handle the cold, he couldn’t stand by and let his lark shiver for one more second.

Jaskier tugs it tighter around himself, warding off the cold. His fingers are fine though, strumming a few chords on his lute. The occasional screech of a blade on whetstone joins him. Eskel is nearby, sharpening the last of his blades. But he stops whenever Jaskier’s couple of chords become lines of music. Whenever the bard mumbles a few lines, testing how they taste and sit in his mouth, Eskel keeps quiet.

Geralt and Ciri keep practising, though. She was telling the truth when she barged into their room yesterday. She’s gotten much better at pirouetting. It’s like the water dancers he used to watch as a child, whenever his father had them commissioned to perform at a party or feast. He spends half of his time playing his lute, while the other half glancing up and watching the lesson take place in front of him. Ciri dodges every strike Geralt lunges at her. She deflects every swing of a sparring sword. She doesn’t fall over or stumble, but roots her feet into the ground, like Lambert taught her to do before the snow came.

She twirls on one foot, bringing her sword around and deflecting another swing from Geralt. She grunts with the force of it. She ducks and weaves, a fierce look etching into her face with every step she has to take back to avoid getting hit with Geralt’s sparring sword.

Whether intentionally or not, Geralt makes a mistake. He draws back a bit too much for a swing, leaving his front open for attack. Ciri is quick. Before Geralt’s arm can go all the way back, drawing for an attack, Ciri lunges: jutting the edge of her sword into his chest. The point of it stops just shy of his body.

Geralt stands stock still. Arms splayed out on either side. A yield.

If it were a real fight, with real steel, she could just lunge forward and pierce Geralt’s chest. From where the tip of her sword is pointing, it’s aimed right at his heart. She could ever knick a lung on the way in.

And he’s not sure if the thought sits well with him or not. He’s proud of her. She’s learned so much over such a short space of time.

But every so often, something hits him in the stomach. The mortality of everything: Ciri is learning how to fight, but also how to protect herself. She needs to protect herself against people who would do her harm.

“Well done lassie,” Eskel calls out, shaking him from his thoughts.

Jaskier offers her a small smile when she glances over to them. “Very well done.”

He’s not going to sit here and say that it doesn’t make him feel some sort of pride to see her landing a strike – a deadly strike – to Geralt. Watching at how quickly excitement bubbles to the surface makes his heart swell: even when she tries to tame it, brushing some hair back behind her ear, and taking up her stance again. Geralt lifts his chin. “Best of three,” he says, lunging for her again.

Eskel nudges him with his foot. “I know that look,” he says softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Jaskier looks down at the lute in his hands, at the strings his fingers gently pluck at. “It’s nothing.”

Eskel snorts. “Aye. And I’m king of a southern holdfast.” A quiet moment settles over them for a moment. Jaskier’s dimly aware of Eskel still staring at the side of his head. He ignores the Witcher, going back to strumming a few notes and jotting down words that come to mind. It’s all nonsense. The page will be ripped out and burned the second Eskel is gone.

The Witcher sets one of his swords to the side, tossing the whetstone on to a nearby table. “I had one too, you know,” he says after a time. He nods over to Ciri. “A child surprise.”

Jaskier flattens his hand over the lute’s strings, stopping their sound. “What?”

Eskel’s brow lifts. “Geralt never told you?”

He shakes his head.

Eskel sits back in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. The forge is nearby, spitting embers and warming their backs. “I got one just like Geralt did: by asking prompting magic I didn’t understand. I saved a knight once. He was in a spot of bother, and I helped him. He was so grateful, he said I could have whatever I wanted.” Eskel huffs a light laugh. “I didn’t want anything. Well, coin would have been useful. Or food, or a place to sleep for the night. But this knight was a noble of some hold west of the Kestrel Mountains. He was pretty fucking insistent that I ask for more. And I heard Vesemir asking for things before. The wording always struck me as odd.” He folds his arms over his chest. “ _Give me that which you find at home, yet do not expect_. I want to find whatever god strung that sentence together and give them a clip ‘round the ear. What horseshit that line is. You could get anything from it: a bottle of milk, straight from the cow outside, to a fucking _child_.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Geralt was just as shocked as you,” he says slowly. “When he realised what he did. What he asked for.”

Eskel snorts. “I can only imagine.”

Ciri continues to dance around the other Witcher. Geralt lands a hit on her, brushing her shoulder with his sparring sword.

Eskel hums. “Though I think Geralt got off lucky with getting that girl,” he says lowly, leaning forward to settle his arms over his knees. “He could have done much worse.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

After a quiet moment, Eskel gestures to his face. A trident of scars runs down one side, from the crown of his head to the jut of his chin. They look old, long-since healed over, but stand out against the Witcher’s otherwise pale skin. “My surprise child. Deirdre. She had blood like wildfire, that one.”

Eskel looks out on to the courtyard, though his gaze doesn’t settle on anything specific. “She had a temper like nothing I’ve ever seen. She could be perfectly fine one moment, and brandishing a blade at you the next. I never blamed her for it. The second that girl was born underneath a black sun, everything had been against her.”

Jaskier looks down at the ground. Geralt told him a story many moons ago – how he got the name of the Butcher of Blaviken. A sorcerer Jaskier wishes he could kill himself, trying to hire Geralt to kill a girl on whispers of a prophecy.

“She lived here for a time,” Eskel continues, looking down at his hands. They’ve blackened from the coals of the forge. “I didn’t know where else to take her. But she lashed out one day, cut my face into what it is now, and disappeared. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Jaskier swallows. “How long ago was it?”

Eskel lifts a shoulder. “Couple of decades, I think. When your lifespan increases like ours, you tend to lose track of time.”

Jaskier hums. Another thud sounds from the arena. Glancing over, he offers a small smile to Ciri when she announces that she was able to hit Geralt again – in the abdomen this time.

“When I heard Geralt had managed to get saddled with a child surprise,” Eskel sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “Gods, I would have given anything to have seen the look on his face. But now I see her, and how he is with her, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what it’s meant to be like.”

“If it’s of any consolation,” Jaskier says quietly, “you’re part of her family too. All of you.”

Their training is called for the day. Ciri rushes over to the sheltered forge, slightly out of breath with small beads of sweat dotted over her forehead. “I finally beat Geralt,” she says, taking up a seat next to Jaskier when he frees up some space for her.

Jaskier presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good. Maybe you’ll be the one to finally beat some sense into him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut in this chapter, just a cheeky bit of character and relationship development with everyone. Including a special appearance from a certain sorceress.

Spring begins to roll over the Continent. No word has come with the changing winds, telling them anything about Nilfgaard or their movements through the Continent. And he supposes that no news could be good news. The others don’t feel the same way. The stone floors of their room may just wear away with how often Geralt paces them, waiting for something or someone to tell him what in the names of all of the gods is happening outside of Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir visits the nearest village and market as often as he can. The keep needs its provisions; although with the snow melting, deer and rabbits are wandering further out into forest clearings, making them easier to hunt. Sometimes Vesemir returns to them with whispers that all is well; that the Nilfgaard forces have been held up further south by insurgents and the armies of northern monarchs sent down to ‘deal with the problem’. But Nilfgaard has Cintra. And that’s something that has sat with Jaskier throughout the seasons. Autumn turned into winter, and now with the last of the snow melting away, he thinks back to the Cintran court and everything that he knew about it. He mourns it, in a way. His grief isn’t as settled into his bones as Ciri’s. Night terrors still plague her at night. His heart aches and tightens any time he hears the door to their chamber creak open, and a small, shaking, tear-stained body joins them in bed. One of them will gather her close, throwing an arm over her, whispering assurances that she is safe, and nothing will come to harm her. But it still hurts him to see a girl so young so frightened.

Jaskier leans back against the keep’s wall. The sun on him is warming, though winds that blow through the keep’s walls still lift his skin into gooseflesh. He tugs his cloak tighter around himself, staving off the brunt of the breeze.

Eskel takes Ciri out to the archery lanes towards the side of the keep. Lambert and Geralt are running some drills in the arena. He looks over to them every so often, watching how they move easily with and against each other.

Ciri was insistent on Jaskier watching her archery lesson, and how much she’s improved in the past few weeks. Every arrow loosed, she throws a quick glance over to the keep wall, making sure that Jaskier was watching. The one time he didn’t – when he looked over to laugh at Lambert knocking Geralt to the ground – she huffed and marched over, demanding that he _watch_.

Eskel stands back as Ciri knocks another arrow, aiming and drawing the string back to the corner of her lip. A smile tugs at the side of Jaskier’s lip. Her arm trembles slightly with the tension in the string. But when she looses the arrow, it finds its way to one of the middle rings with a _thud_.

“Better,” Eskel nods, handing her another arrow him a quiver by his waist. “This time, relax your bow arm. You’re tensing up too much.”

And Ciri follows his instruction. She’s still so small; but he can’t imagine that Geralt or any of the others were much bigger when they started their training. Images flash before him of boys barely as high as his hip scampering around the courtyard, evading their instructors.

Ciri looks up at Eskel for a bit too long. When she speaks, her voice is low and timid. “Does it hurt?”

Eskel regards her for a moment before he shakes his head. “No, lass. Not anymore, at least.”

Ciri nods, looking down to knock another arrow. She draws back. This one embeds itself closer to the bullseye.

Eskel watches her out of the corner of his eye. “Does it bother you?” he gestures vaguely to his face. When Ciri doesn’t answer for a moment, lowering her gaze to the toes of her boots, Eskel sighs. “It’s alright, lass. I noticed you looking at it when you first got her. I know it’s not a nice thing to look at.”

“It’s not that,” she rushes, lowering her bow arm. “I just...wondered if it hurt.” She chews at her lip. “Geralt has scars too. They sometimes hurt him.”

Something flashes across Eskel’s face. “We get hurt doing what we do,” he explains simply. His voice is hard – as if the lesson he’s giving her he’s explained multiple times before. The words don’t even sound like his own. “You get used to pain after a while.”

Steel blades scraping against each other are the only thing that sits over the courtyard. Jaskier lifts his chin, waiting for Ciri’s response. The girl chews her lip. Nothing in the form of an answer comes. Instead, she takes another arrow from Eskel, knocking the fletch to her bowstring.

Eskel tilts his head. “Does that shock you, girl?”

Ciri shakes her head. “I’m not afraid of pain,” she says simply. Lifting her bow arm, she draws the string back, anchoring it to the corner of her lip.

* * *

Jaskier plays for them when the nights come. The days try to be warm, with the sun struggling to break through rain-heavy clouds that settle over everything below. But the nights are still bitterly cold. Gathered around the hearth in one of the studies, they all listen to him pluck at his lute, playing anything and everything that he could remember. An education at Oxenfurt and years travelling from town to town, province to province, meant that he had a wide array of ballads and reels to choose from. If any of them are bothered by him repeating a song, they don’t voice it.

Ciri, to the best of his knowledge, sleeps peacefully against Geralt’s side. Training and lessons have steadily been getting more taxing. And without mutations to help her deal with it all, exhaustion is starting to take its toll on her. So he keeps his humming and lute-playing low.

Geralt sits beside him. If Jaskier’s fingers fumble with a chord every so often, it’s absolutely because of the Witcher’s fingers skimming over a stretch of exposed flesh along the back of his neck. He likes wearing the collar ties of his shirt undone; what can he say. And Geralt likes taking full advantage of it.

Lambert laughs lightly into a cup of wine. “I’m tempted to thank you, bard, for everything you’ve done for our guild.” At Jaskier’s lifted brow, the Witcher lifts his cup. “You said that your songs were written to change people’s perspective of Geralt? Do you think it was just for him that people changed their minds?”

Jaskier’s fingers still over the strings. “I suppose _toss a coin to your Witcher_ could mean just about any Witcher.”

“People started approaching me in taverns and inns,” Lambert mulls, sitting back into his armchair. “But, gods, when I heard that you had written those songs about _Geralt_ of all people-”

The Witcher by his side stiffens. If not for a sleeping child by his side, he would have thrown something at his brother’s head. Possibly a boot, or maybe even his own abandoned drink on the wooden table in front of them. Jaskier gentles him with a small look. “Glad to know that I made you more appealing to the public,” he throws back to Lambert.

“A true miracle,” Eskel lilts from the hearth. Lambert sends him a glowering glare.

Ciri shuffles by Geralt’s side. She has his arm caught firmly in hers, hanging on as if someone would drag her away. Geralt glances down at her. A soft frown shadows over her face. Retracting his other arm from around Jaskier’s shoulders, he brushes the girl’s hair back from her face. She snuffles, but stays sleeping.

Jaskier nudges his shoulder. “Bring her to her room,” he says softly, “she’ll sleep better on an actual bed; not slumped against you.”

“You have no problem falling asleep on me,” Geralt reasons, but moves from the couch. The frown over Ciri’s face only deepens when she’s jostled slightly, but Geralt is quick to scoop her up into his arms and settle her against his chest. She grumbles something into the hollow of his neck. She wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Goodnight lassie,” Lambert says as Geralt takes her away. It’s softly echoed by Eskel.

Lambert watches the door groan shut. As soon as it does, he sits forward, setting his glass down on the table in front of him. “How long have you and Geralt been together?”

Jaskier’s fingers pause. He’s made no secret of them being together. They’re sleeping in the same room. He goes to meals and the baths below the keep with his skin littered in marks. For all of Geralt’s superhuman healing abilities, he tries to leave some on the bastard too; but they never last. And he’s pretty sure that _someone_ must have heard them together. All of the Witchers sleep on the same floor. And despite the walls being heavy stone, melded together with cement, sound travels easily. Apparently.

So Jaskier puts his lute aside. “A while.” Because it isn’t a lie. “Why do you ask?”

Eskel’s eyes flicker over to him, but the other Witcher doesn’t say anything. Instead, Lambert nods. “The bastard suddenly became less of a grump,” he says. “I was wondering what had happened to him.”

And it colours Jaskier’s face. He can feel the heat rising and settling over his cheeks. “Well, I met him a long time ago,” he says. “But we’ve only between...together...for a few years.”

Lambert hums, scratching his chin. He mulls over something for a time. “You’re good for him,” he eventually says. “He’s different when he’s with you. A good different. I think I actually saw him smile the other day.”

“A backed-up Geralt is never any fun,” Eskel says. It takes everything in Jaskier not to either run from the room entirely or bash his lute over Eskel’s head. 

The door to the room opens, and with how much the Witchers jolt, Jaskier presumes that Geralt is back. But when he looks over, he’s surprised to see Vesemir; wearing a hollowed sort of look. His golden eyes settle on Jaskier. “I would like a word with you and Geralt. Where is he?”

Jaskier sits up. “He’s putting Ciri to bed.”

Vesemir grunts. “Get him and come to my study.” And with that, the elder wolf is gone. The other Witchers share a look before going back to doing whatever it was that they were doing before. Eskel tosses another log on to the hearth, keeping the fire going. Lambert goes back to his drink.

Jaskier swallows. The room had been so warm that, stepping out into the hallway, a shiver runs up his spine. Folding his arms over his chest, he wanders up the wall, towards the floor housing all of them. He finds Geralt on his way back. A soft smile coils along his lips when he sees the bard. “Vesemir wants a word,” Jaskier says quietly.

A very brief flash of what seems to be fear blinks across Geralt’s face. “Did he say what for?”

Jaskier shakes his head. Geralt’s hand finds his, squeezing a small reassurance. Vesemir’s quarters aren’t on the same floor as the other Witchers. Apparently having the boys together was one of the only solaces they could find when the trials and mutations were going on. But the instructors were somewhere else, higher up in the keep.

He’s never been into any of the other bedrooms. Why would he? But they must all look the same. He’s told as much as soon as Geralt opens the door to Vesemir’s room, and he gestures the bard inside. The layout is the same; a room with an ample amount of floor space, decorated sparsely with wooden furniture and throws. A hearth is embedded into one of the walls, while another has tall lancet doors that lead out on to a balcony. Jaskier’s skin starts to warm up as soon as Geralt ushers them further into the room, closing the door behind them.

Vesemir stands by his desk, pouring himself an ample drink. A collection of rolled parchments lie scattered on the oak. Strings and broken, wax seals sit among them. “I’ve received news from the south,” he says simply. There’s a graveness to his voice that doesn’t sit well at all in Jaskier’s stomach. He wanders over to the hearth, reaching out with one hand to feel its warmth. Vesemir sits at his desk, sighing heavily as he settles back into it. “A Vicovaroian knight named Cahir is leading the forces in the south. Hand-picked by Emperor Emhyr himself.”

The room is quiet. “How do you know all of this?” Jaskier frowns.

“I have eyes and ears all over this Continent, lad.” Vesemir rubs a hand over his face. “I called in a few favours.” The elder looks over to Geralt, his eyes growing darker. “Little birds tell me that the soldiers were given an explicit order: no one is leaving any defeated and conquered kingdom until they find the girl.”

Even in the dim light of the room, lit by the hearth and candles dotted around, Jaskier can see a small snarl lift the bow of Geralt’s lip. “Why?”

“That, my contact never found out.” Vesemir sighs. “But I suppose there are some theories to be made.”

“Like what?”

“The girl has magic,” Vesemir replies, splaying his hands. “Strong magic. I can feel it; flowing through her just as easily as blood does.”

Geralt nods. “She mentioned it to me before.”

“When?”

“She was escaping Cintra.” Geralt folds his arms. “She told me that some boys tried to bring her to the Nilfgaardians. So she screamed out for help. She woke up the next morning to four dead bodies and a destroyed cornfield.”

Vesemir hums. “That much untapped power isn’t safe. She needs help in controlling it.”

“One wrong move and she could level this entire keep,” Geralt replies, “with all of us in it.”

Vesemir’s expression sobers. “This keep and it’s walls have stood for centuries. This is the safest place for her, save for getting on a boat and leaving the Continent. So I want her to stay here,” he says firmly. “But she’s your child: I’ll leave the decision to you whether or not you want to keep her here.”

Geralt glances over to Jaskier. He’s been quiet. He knows he has. Talk of magic as ancient as what courses through Ciri’s veins doesn’t belong to him. He doesn’t know a great deal of information about it. For all of his education in Oxenfurt, and his wanderings throughout the Continent, whatever it is that Ciri has is totally unique.

Except for her mother. He remembers the day Pavetta almost took out a chunk of the Cintran palace with rage.

The memory makes him shiver. “I don’t think she should be out in the wilds,” Jaskier says softly, holding Geralt’s gaze. “If you can assure that she is the safest here, then she’s staying here.”

* * *

Geralt is restless.

Jaskier watches him from their bed. It must be his tenth or twentieth circuit of the room, stalking from one wall to another. He tried stepping out on to the balcony outside – a plan foiled when Jaskier threatened him with a boot to the head if he so much as cracked the doors open, letting out the wonderful warmth of their hearth. The stones in the floor might just wear away to nothing if Geralt doesn’t stop walking over them.

Jaskier sighs. “Come to bed. Some sleep will do you good.”

At that, Geralt looses a short growl. “Sleep? How can I sleep knowing how much danger Ciri is in?”

Jaskier blinks. “Vesemir said it himself: this is the safest place for her.” Fidgeting with the blankets pooled around his lap, he looks down at his fingers picking at a fraying edge to a quilt. “Who will be looking for her this far inland?”

“It’s not safe _enough_.” Geralt sighs heavily, settling his hands on his waist. “Someone will have noticed her travelling with a white-haired Witcher and a bard. And there aren’t many people like that on the Continent.”

“The Continent is a big place,” Jaskier reasons.

“People _talk_ ,” Geralt huffs. “They talk at the promise of gold or harm. So they’ll talk to that fucking knight.”

“Well, if you’re going to stay up all night pacing then take it down to the stables.” Jaskier flops back on to the bed. He rearranges the blankets, tugging them up as far as his chin and settling down into the mound of pillows. His head has barely hit them before he feels the foot of the bed dip. Peering over the blankets, he sees Geralt perched at the end of the bed, leaning down to bury his face in his hands.

He’s utterly motionless for what seems to be a moment too long. Jaskier makes a sound in the back of his throat. He gets out of the wrap of blankets, shuffling down towards the Witcher. His arms coil over and around Geralt’s shoulders, tugging at him until his back is pressed against Jaskier’s chest. His lips settle against Geralt’s temple. “I know you’re afraid-”

“-I’m not _af_ -”

“-No, you are. I know you are.” Jaskier squeezes his arms. “And it’s okay to be. I am too. But that isn’t going to help Ciri, is it?”

A begrudging _no_ leaves Geralt. Jaskier sets his chin on the crown of the Witcher’s head. There’s a faint scent of sea salt off of the other man. A quiet moment passes. One that often does whenever they’re alone together. Neither of them feels the need to fill it with aimless rambling or comments. Geralt’s hands settle over Jaskier’s forearms, his thumbs rubbing against the skin he can find. With each minute that passes, he can feel the Witcher starting to relax back into him.

Jaskier hums. “She has magic. Powerful magic.” He buries his nose into Geralt’s hair. “We get someone here who can help her manage it.”

Geralt sends a pointed look over his shoulder. “You’re hardly suggesting that-”

“-Of course we can just contact the Brotherhood, or what’s left of it,” Jaskier comments drily. “I’m sure they’d love to have their hands on someone like Ciri.”

It’s enough of a remark to get a growl out of the very base of Geralt’s chest. “We’ll get Vesemir to send a message to all of his spies,” Jaskier gentles. “Someone will have seen her.”

It takes another couple of minutes to get Geralt pliant enough to move. When he eventually strips down into his smallclothes and slips underneath the blankets of their bed, Jaskier spots the moon starting to perch high in the night sky. A soft sheen of white light covers the mountain’s face outside. Settling down into bed with his Witcher, Jaskier lies close, resting a hand on Geralt’s chest. Underneath his palm, he can feel a heart beating quickly – well, quickly for a Witcher.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’ll be alright,” he gentles, tracing faint patterns along Geralt’s skin. “She’ll be safe.”

* * *

“So who is she?”

Jaskier looks up. Two very blue, very big, eyes blink back at him. He frowns slightly. “Who?”

“Geralt says someone will be visiting soon,” Ciri says, lifting herself up to perch on the edge of the table Jaskier’s working at, “a lady, I think. He mentioned a _she_.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow. “Did he say that to you, or did he say it to someone else and you overheard?”

Ciri shrugs a shoulder. “He was talking to Vesemir in the middle of the dining hall. Whatever’s said there is fair game.”

“Is it?” Jaskier snorts. “I’ll be sure to keep my secrets away from the dining hall then.”

Ciri laughs. It’s a light and bubbly thing; something he didn’t hear from her for a few months. He supposes with everything she’s been through and everything she’s seen, any trace of joy or happiness would have left her with the rest of autumn. But Lambert and Eskel managed to get laughs out of her – albeit indirectly. Turns out that watching the two Witchers have mundane arguments in the middle of the yard, ones that turn into full-on, weapon-wielding scraps, is funny. And, _yeah_ , he can kind of agree with her.

Ciri peers down at the parchment he’s writing on. “So who is she?”

“Ask Geralt.” Dipping his quill back into ink, Jaskier continues from where he left off – or when he was interrupted.

He hears a short sigh leave the girl. “I did. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“And why are you asking me?”

“Because if Geralt tells me no, I ask you.”

At that, Jaskier looks back up at her, the scrape of a quill against parchment pausing. “She’s a friend of Geralt’s.”

Ciri’s eyes narrow. “But not a friend of yours?”

“No. Well, yes. I suppose in-directly. I know her,” he explains. 

“Is she nice?”

“Ciri-”

“-All winter it’s just been me surrounded by boys,” she says firmly. “I’m just excited for a girl to be finally coming.”

 _And she’ll love you so much_ , Jaskier can’t help but think. He doesn’t remember much of the mountain. He remembers Geralt’s words. No matter how many times he tries to forget, he doesn’t think that he can ever forget every word Geralt had said to him. And although Geralt sought him out after it all, almost falling to his knees with apologies, he can see Geralt’s infuriated expression sometimes, right in front of him, as if it were really there.

But he also remembers Yennefer; and her only desire to be a mother. A desire that was so profound, she was willing to hunt down a dragon and consume its heart.

Jaskier looks at Ciri for a moment. _She’ll love you so much_.

He sets his quill down, his work long forgotten about. “She’s a sorceress,” he tells her. “The most powerful sorceress I’ve ever seen. And the strongest woman I know.”

Ciri’s eyes light up.

* * *

He knows when she’s here. The air changes. It seems thicker, laced with a scent that is _very_ foreign to the keep. In the countless days and weeks of his stay here, he grew used to the smell of the hot springs, smoke from hearths, sweat from Witchers who insist on training for long hours every day. Even the mountain air outside carried a smell.

But this scent isn’t like any of it; it’s like royal courts, bathhouses of noble manors. Lilacs and gooseberries. Even in the innermost room of the keep, scribbling down lines that came to him during the night, he can sense it.

Yennefer arrives alone, astride a dappled grey mare. She looks...well. Jaskier steps out into the courtyard, watching her offer a small smile to Eskel as he takes her horse’s reins. From everything Vesemir managed to gather about her, she certainly doesn’t look like she unleashed a field of fire on to a hoard of the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

But it’s been weeks. Winter has come and gone. And Yennefer has a remarkable ability to survive everything that fronts on her. She’ll outlive the lot of them – if not out of ability, then purely out of spite. She looks just the same as she did when they stood on the mountain. But he’s been around Geralt and other Witchers long enough to finally grasp the concept of delayed, or even halted, ageing.

Eskel takes the mare away, promising the creature a groom and feast once she’s settled into the stables with the other horses. Lambert and Vesemir pointedly stay to the keep’s wall, watching the sorceress with keen eyes.

It’s Geralt who steps out to greet her. “Thank you for coming,” he says quietly once he’s close enough. The words almost get lost with the passing breeze gliding through the courtyard.

Yennefer offers him an almost bemused look. “Yes, well, I could hardly refuse an invitation from the wolves of Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt snorts. Jaskier tries to keep his own scoff to himself. She absolutely _could_ refuse an invitation if she wanted to. She didn’t have to travel from gods know where. She didn’t have to whether the rainstorm that stretched through the previous night – though her and her horse look as dry as a bone, so he wonders if she’s still camping in tents like the one on the mountain. Jaskier does laugh at that. Maybe the thing has been updated to have a stable attached.

Her eyes flicker over to Jaskier. “I see your shadow is still with you.”

At one point in time, the words would have lashed like a whip. That was always what had happened. The two of them would exchange comments, lasting just long enough for Geralt to have a mild breakdown and flee the battleground.

But now, he can see the faint hint of a smile on her lips. Jaskier folds his arms. “Sorceress.”

Geralt glances between the two of them, waiting for something. He narrows his eyes at Jaskier. When a moment of silence stretches out a tad too long, he nods. The keep, although sprawling, is getting smaller with every new person that insists on using it as a den to hibernate in. And he isn’t going to let the air in the keep go rancid because of what happened in the past.

Ciri stays by Geralt’s side; her hand brushing his, tentative, deciding whether or not she’s going to take it. When he moves slightly out of the way, letting her stand in full-view of Yennefer, she tries her best to swallow a balk.

Yennefer kneels down on to her haunches. “Are you my new student?”

Ciri glances up at Geralt, then back to her. “I guess?”

At that, the sorceress laughs. She holds out one hand. “Yennefer.”

A soft ghost of a smile flashes over Ciri’s face. “Ciri,” she returns the handshake.

“I’ve heard marvellous things about you, Ciri,” Yennefer says quietly, sharing the words between the two of them. “I can’t wait to see them.”

* * *

Everything is as it always is; a warm, crackling hearth; soft linen sheets against his skin and thick furs lining the bottom of their bed; a heavy, firm, warm body over him, pinning him down.

Lips working along the length of his neck. A hand running over his bared chest and side.

And he’s distantly aware of all of it. His body is present, that much he’s sure of. His own hips have been grinding up and seeking out Geralt’s since the Witcher caught and pinned him to the bed almost half an hour ago.

But his mind is somewhere else.

A soft sigh settles against his neck. “You’re being very quiet,” Geralt says, lifting his head to look at him. His eyes are soft: eyes that only a handful of people have ever had the novelty of seeing. Eyes that, despite that, are so common around Jaskier. “Are you alright?”

Jaskier almost jolts back to himself. He’d been staring at the same wooden rafter on the ceiling. “What? Yeah, yes, sorry,” he offers a light laugh. “I’m alright. Sorry. Just,” he gestures vaguely, “go back to what you were doing.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. With a bemused smile, he moves to the side, holding himself up on one arm while he pulls the sheets up to cover them both. “Something’s on your mind,” he says simply, settling his bard with a _look_.

Jaskier blanches. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

The bard sighs heavily. “You’re being difficult,” he grunts. He doesn’t move away. Some part of him wants to: turn on to his other side and stare at the far wall until Geralt either sorts himself out or just goes to sleep. But Geralt’s eyes are piercing things when they want to be, and even though his expression is soft and inquisitive, there’s only so long the Witcher can look at him _like that_ before Jaskier’s resolve starts to crack.

Geralt still has a hand on him, skimming lightly over his abdomen. Against his thigh, Jaskier can still feel the other man’s hardness. He lifts his chin. “I’m sorry,” he says gently, reaching for the back of Geralt’s head. “Just have a lot to think about. That’s all.”

“Anything you want to share?”

“Everything that has happened so far,” is the only thing Jaskier offers. His hand moves until he has fingers skimming along the side of Geralt’s face. There’s a faint smudge of a bruise on his cheek – a small remnant of a scrap with Eskel over something or other. He’s stopped keeping track on the fights that break out of nowhere. Vesemir told him at the start of the winter that he would soon grow used to them. He didn’t expect it to take effect so quickly.

Geralt hums, catching Jaskier’s hand and bringing the back of it to his lips. “I hope that you know this already, but I want to thank you,” he says, turning Jaskier’s hand and pressing another kiss to his palm. It sends a shiver up the bard’s spine. “You’re so much stronger than I am with this kind of thing; with Ciri and what to do. You’re just...so calm.”

Jaskier snorts. “It’s all a front,” he breathes, hitching when Geralt plants another kiss to his wrist. “I’m just as afraid as you. Maybe even more so.”

Geralt’s lips pause, pressing a small bit harder to the inside of Jaskier’s wrist. Jaskier tries to slow his breathing. The Witcher can probably feel his pulse hammering against his skin.

He pulls his mouth away from Jaskier’s wrist, but still keeps a hold of it. “Everything will be alright,” he says softly. Jaskier’s own words being flung back at him.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request that’s quickly answered when Geralt leans down and claims his lips with his own. His caught hand is pinned to the bed, but the one that’s free, he throws over Geralt’s shoulders. He holds him close, letting their bodies press back against each other. It doesn’t take much to convince Geralt to go back to where he was; holding himself just over Jaskier’s body, grinding his hips against his.

At some point in his life, maybe after Rinde but before the mountain, or perhaps even after that too, he would have revelled in the idea of Geralt being in _his_ bed. The body that the Witcher is wringing pleasure out of is _his_ body.

And not Yennefer’s.

But he supposes all of that left him when the comments they would bat at each other whenever they met turned more and more playful. Their teeth softened any time they would be in the same space. Even when their encounters were brief, the mere passing of each other as they wandered into the same towns or cities, Jaskier found himself not harbouring any more ill feelings towards the sorceress.

He can’t put a precise pin on where that change took place. Maybe it was a gradual thing. Maybe it took hold overnight.

A gasp is wrung out of his throat when he feels teeth nip at the ridge of his jaw. “If you leave marks,” he turns his head to face the Witcher, “I swear to all of the gods I’ll-”

“-You might not hate her anymore,” Geralt chuckles, “but I know that you’re an exhibitionist harlot who would very much enjoy parading around her tomorrow with a necklace of bruises."

And...Jaskier swallows as Geralt goes back to what he was doing. He really can’t argue with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been longer but I am horrifically ill with some inflamed and backed up sinuses and the only treatment is a nasal spray that has all of the effects of crack cocaine. So I'm ending this fic now before I come down off my high too quickly and bail on consciousness lmao  
> (it's also 3:30am)
> 
> So the little song that Jaskier might be working on may be his rendition of this fic's namesake (The Oh Hello's "Soldier, Poet, King")

**Author's Note:**

> Will I end up naming all of my fics after songs by the Oh Hellos? Maybe.
> 
> There could be a Part II to this, but it's currently 1:47am. And my grasp on reality is fading.
> 
> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense and bad humour) | agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> Comments & Kudos very much appreciated!


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